


Cursed Mercy

by fatigued_fan



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Canada, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Diary/Journal, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Flashbacks, Getting to Know Each Other, Homophobia, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, James Gillies character study, James Gillies has mommy and daddy issues, M/M, Mental Instability, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Slow To Update, Torture, Verbal Abuse, author doesn't know how to write historical fiction, this is why James gillies is such a monster
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27181060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatigued_fan/pseuds/fatigued_fan
Summary: When George Crabtree finds a mysterious journal bequeathed to him by one James Gillies, he thinks it must be a prank. After all, James Gillies was Murdoch's archenemy and not his. Naturally, he must let his favourite detective know about the mysterious package just in case James Gillies has, in fact, escaped death's grasp again.Told through a series of journal entries as well as flashbacks and present day actions, Murdoch and company begin to unravel the mystery that was James and Gillies to find out one and for all whether the man was born a monster or warped into one.
Relationships: James Gillies/Robert Perry, James Gillies/William Murdoch, William Murdoch/Julia Ogden
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I noticed a distinct lack of fics surrounding the mystery that was James Gillies upbringing and history and so decided to create my own. Aside from that, the Murdoch fandom is small and I just want to contribute to one of my favourite fandoms on the internet. With that said, enjoy!

Are criminals made or born? 

That is the question which seems to plague the mind of man, which has lain waste to the corners of men's minds since the beginning of civilized society. Some may say that a criminal is born, that they come out of the womb ready and willing to do whatever it takes to ensure they survive and live the way they see fit. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps these criminals were simply meant to exist and perform all of their terrible actions. Maybe God had simply needed them as scapegoats to ensure the rest of his flock behaved properly. 

Others may say that criminals are made by society, that some trauma within their childhood warped their psyche and changed the deepest part of their soul. These criminals have nothing, no silver spoon or loving home, or sense of self, and so they steal that from others. It is people like this, driven by their desire to carve a life for themselves out of the cold uncaring stone of society, that corrupt and feed off of misery. These created criminals are evil; desperate beasts that cling to whatever glimmer of hope finds them in the dark pits of their despair. 

William Murdoch had always believed humans to be born good, that society was what made or broke an individual. 

That was until he met James Gillies, of course. 


	2. So it Begins

The morning air was brisk and dry, sweeping gusts playing with the coattails of George Crabtree’s jacket as he made his way through the busy streets of Toronto towards station house number four. Carrying with the wind was a building sense of dread and George felt it deep within his bones.

It was a peculiar sense, dread. Somewhere in between worry and horror it lay, like a snake waiting in the underbrush to sink its fangs into another unwary victim. Were they, the humans, all victims of some unforeseen monster George wondered. Perhaps not a monster but something else entirely, a collective consciousness writhing in the masses of Torontonians and sucking its lifeblood out through their words and actions. He saw it every day, the depravity and despair of humanity. People lied and cheated and murdered, and for what?

What purpose did any of it actually serve?

Now was not the time to focus on that, it would do no good in the grand scheme of things. But George couldn’t seem to end his pondering, especially not given the severity of the previous day’s outcome. A couple strolling along a pathway in one of the many parks had stumbled across a body in the water and naturally the police had been called to investigate. It was a terrible business, seeing a bloated corpse so large it looked like it would burst, but that wasn’t the worst of it. 

Emily and doctor Ogden had been the ones to examine the body and what should have been a routine autopsy was anything but. When he and detective Murdoch first heard the idea that the corpse was possibly James Gillies neither of them could believe it. There was no way that a man as twisted and ingenious as Gillies had found an end drowned in a lake. Doctor Ogden had reassured them that it was Gillies, that the facial reconstruction as well as the bullet pulled from his shoulder had matched everything. 

George was skeptical but wanted it so badly to be over that he did his best to push the thought from his mind, simply choosing to believe that Gillies was actually dead. 

His thoughts had occupied him all the way to the station and he ducked inside, wiping his boots on the mat he and Higgins had thought to place down at the entrance. They weren’t heathens, and besides, it made the cleaning all that much easier for the custodial staff. Typically he would sit at his desk and begin the paperwork but it appeared that a man had taken up residence there and was waiting for him. 

The man was tall and thin, a large nose prominent on his angular face and rounded glasses perched on the edge of his nose. He wore the dress of someone well to do, a suit prim and proper with a lapel that George suspected was real silver. In his hand were two things, a large briefcase and what looked like a thick leather bound book. George felt the bitter taste of revulsion at the man, clearly he was a lawyer, but took a breath and returned to his amiable demeanor. The last thing he wanted was to make enemies with a man who no doubt had connections and could ruin him. 

“Excuse me, may I help you sir?” George asked as he set his constable’s helmet on his desk, meeting the eyes of the man. He looked familiar, too familiar, but George wasn’t sure exactly where he had seen the lawyer before. It was probably some low level criminal trial or something to that effect. All lawyers looked the same to George. 

“I take it that you’re George Crabtree.” The man replied, his voice abrupt and almost rude. “My name is Cornelius Bloom, I’m working with the prosecution. Given the discovery of James Gillies body, I am here to see you about the only item left in his will.”

“James Gillies had a will?” George asked incredulously, his eyes bulging. The notion that James Gillies had even had possessions to give away in a will was something so foreign to him. "And you’re saying that he left something to me… That doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

“Regardless of whether or not it makes sense to you, it is what occurred. I will leave this book in your possession for you to do with it what you will. Have a good day Mr. Crabtree.” Cornelius said, setting the book down on the desk before tipping his hat and exiting the constabulary with the air of a man who could no longer stand being there. 

“That book is from James Gillies, are you going to show detective Murdoch?” Higgins asked, looking at the journal with wide eyes. “Or are you going to just burn it?”

“Why on earth would I burn it, Higgins? This could very possibly explain everything about James Gillies and why he was so disturbed. I don’t think I’ll show detective Murdoch yet, I want to read it first and see if it’s actually from Gillies or if it’s just a prank from someone who’s been following the cases about him. Now go finish your paperwork and leave me be.” Henry rolled his eyes and turned back to the abundant stack of paperwork on his desk. George, now far too distracted by the book, turned to it and picked it up to examine it. 

The book was thick, about 200 pages if George had to take a guess. The leather was black and rough beneath the pads of George’s fingers, the material worn and showing signs of clear age. So far it seemed authentic but that did little to assuage the worry in the pit of George’s stomach. Cracking the book open, George’s eyes fell to the message scrawled on the inner cover. The writing was, without a doubt, James Gillies’. 

_ My Dearest George Crabtree, _

_ It appears that I have died if you are having the fortune (or misfortune) of reading this inscription. Truly I wish I hadn’t died, I had so much to live for and my brain could have been used to further the world and make it a much better place for those who deserved it. Anyway, this prattling will not serve either of us so I suppose I must be getting on with the point of all of this.  _

_ I gave you this book for a few reasons. You, George Crabtree, are both a foolish and a reasonable man. You will not read this journal and think that I am a monster right away like the detective or proceed to psychoanalyze me like his lovely wife. What you will do, for I know you well, is to read through the journal and simply see the story of my life. From one author to another, truly you are the man to confide in.  _

_ Should you deign to show the detective and the lovely doctor this journal once you have finished reading it, that is your choice. I simply ask that you tell the detective that this was not originally meant for his eyes. He is not deserving of knowing my story, not like you are.  _

_ Yours forever, _

_ James Gillies  _


	3. The finality of

_ They say they found me on the doorstep of Saint Augustine’s church one hot afternoon, July the 14th of 1876 I believe. Some shrill cry I uttered must have altered one of the nuns as I imagine they lifted me into their arms, a squirming mass of wrinkled folded flesh. Babies truly are such ugly creatures, beady eyes hidden in the folds of skin and tiny fists waved in righteous anger at everything that they do not yet understand about the world. I must have been an ugly child, so thin and gaunt the yet fully formed bones of my ribs sticking out sharply. Perhaps I had a head of blond hair or perhaps I was bald, I do not know for sure.  _

_ I believe my earliest memory was of one of the sisters, a Sister Rose of Lima. She was always the kindest of the sisters who ran the orphanage. It was her eyes, the deep brown set in a face crinkled with aged smile lines and hands that were both rough and soft as if the years of her service to the lord had somehow erased her childhood of hard work and manual labour. I must have been two when the accident occurred.  _

_ It was a sunny day, the heat beating down on my brown when I stepped out into the garden to study the flowers. They were always so pretty, especially the roses. Something about the delicate way they bloomed entranced me, made me want to be one with them. I must have tripped during that fog of toddler induced wonder for the next thing I remember was a searing pain ripping through me. I began to scream and cry before I even knew what was wrong.  _

_ Sister Rose came running over and pulled my hand away from me to examine it. In my haste to see the flowers and cut one for myself , I had tripped and fallen. The sharp blades of the garden shears had plunged through my hand and stuck out the other side, blood beading around the dirt and pooling in the palm of my hand. Had my blood always been red I wondered. I found a strange little world within that single drop of blood that fell from my hand onto my face scrunched up in pain. The reflection was mesmerizing, a world distorted by redness and roundness. She picked me up and brought me inside, setting me on the hard wood of the large table in the kitchen.  _

_ “It will be okay,” she told me. I believed her. The water was cold on my hand and I watched with a morbid fascination as the clear liquid soon turned murky and red as it dripped into the sink. Was this the substance that gave me life? It was such an odd colour and the smell so metallic. I think it was this that stated the fascination. I remember asking Sister Rose what the red liquid was and she told it was blood.  _

_ Blood.  _

_ It just seems to roll off of my tongue as easily as it rolls off of the palms of my hands. I wanted to see more of it, I HAD to see more of it.  _

_ I was three when I saw the blood again though it was not mine. One of the older girls, she was twelve I believe, had run into the room in a panic. I never understood how women were so flighty or so prone to panic. It made me wary of them, made me desire them less and less with each passing day. This girl, Angelique, had blood on her skirt. It had soaked through the back of it, staining the green a brownish colour. The faint metallic odour filled my nostrils again and I couldn't help the elation that spread through me.  _

_ One of the sisters pulled her away from the rest of us and resentment boiled in my stomach at that. I turned to another nun after that and asked why Angelique had been bleeding like that. A period she had called, something that every woman went through because of the sin Eve had committed in the garden. I think it might have been then that my respect for women died out. Honestly, they're just not worth it.  _

~

The passage ended abruptly and George raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his desk chair to think about what he had just read. Gillies being abandoned as a child made more than enough sense but it troubled George as well. Surely not every foundling would turn into such a monster? There had to be more to James Gillies than just a fascination for blood and a lack of strong parents. 

George himself was a foundling and he knew that he was nothing like James Gillies. He didn't have that fascination with blood, that monstrous streak that had resulted in decapitations and kidnappings and doctor Ogden being buried alive. There was no twisted genius, no tortured soul unable to be saved from hellfire. George was better than that, he knew that much.

While George had been pondering everything, the inspector had entered the bullpen and in his usual brusque manner had found his way over to George and Henry. “Oi, Crabtree, quit daydreaming and get back to work. Usually Higgins is off with his head in the clouds.”

George snapped out of his musings and felt a faint flush of embarrassment colour his cheeks at being caught being so lackadaisical. Now the key was to not be suspicious, to avoid letting the inspector in on what had been bequeathed to him. “Sorry sir, won’t happen again.”

The inspector simply nodded his head before he shuffled off and to his office, the door closing with its typical thud. George breathed out a sigh of relief and Henry simply shook his head. “Maybe you should read that on your own time, George. Or at least not in the station where the inspector or detective Murdoch can catch you.” 

“Where the detective can catch you doing what?” Murdoch asked, having been passing by on the way to his office. He seemed suspicious, his eyebrow raised. Whatever scheme George and Henry had begun, it was sure to end horribly. That was usually how things went. 

“Reading the newest novel by Alice Lancaster.” Henry said quickly, having panicked. It wouldn’t have been an issue save for the fact that Alice Lancaster was known for writing rather provocative novels somewhere in between pornography and just utter immoral garbage. She had called it erotica if Murdoch remembered correctly. 

“Well-” Murdoch began, pausing and clearing his throat in not so subtle distaste at their actions. “Perhaps save that for your leisure time at home. I think that would be best.”

George nodded and waited for Murdoch to leave before he turned to Higgins, a look of indignation on his face. “Higgins, why would you say that to the detective?! Now he thinks I’m some kind of pervert which we both know I am not.”

“I panicked, I’m sorry. It’s not like I can just tell him the truth without you losing it.”

“Just, don’t do it again..”


End file.
